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J^tiM W. VkViOK 

Dedicated to the Conservation of 

Virginia's Wildlife and Related Natural Resources 

and to the Betterment of 

Outdoor Recreation in Virginia 

Published by Virginia commission of game and inland fisheries, Richmond, Virginia 23230 


MILLS E, GODWIN, JR., Governor 

Commission of Game and Inland Fisheries 


William H. West, Chairman .... Millwood 
DoLPH Hays, Vice Chairman .... Arlington 

Edwahd E. Edgar Norfolk 

R. G. GuNTER Abingdon 

Allan A. Hoffman, M.D Danville 

James R. Knight, Jr., D.D.S Warsaw 

John P. Randolph Spring Grove 

G. Richard Thompson Marshall 

Richard E. Watkins Richmond 

Ralph L. Weaver Waynesboro 


Chester F. Phelps, Executive Director 
James F. McInteer, Jr., Assistant Director 
Richard H. Cross, Jr. . . Chief, Game Division 
Harry L. Gillam . . Chief, Education Division 
Jack M. Hoffman .... Chief, Fish Division 
John H. McLaughlin, C/iie/,Lat^ Enforcement Div. 
Sam J. Putt ...... Chief, Fiscal Division 

PUBLICATION OFFICE: Commission of Game and In- 
land Fisheries, 4010 W. Broad St., Richmond, Virginia 

Harry L. Gillam Editor 

Ann E. Pilcher ..... Editorial Assistant 

Carl C. Knuth . . . Artist and Photographer 

Mel White Circulation 

Volume XXXV/ No. 12 


Editorial : Today Waterfowl — Tomorrow ?? 3 

Letters 3 

Eightball 4 

Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel Stripers 6 

A Good Deal in Clubs 8 

Unusual Decorations 10 

Quest for a Citation 11 

Conservationgram 13 

Let's Feed the Birds 14 

Rambling in the Suburbs 16 

Hunting Old No. 1 18 

A Beautiful Dark, Rainy December Day 20 

Commission Personnel Recipients in Governor's 

Award Program 21 

The Drumming Log 23 

Endangered Species : Eastern Panther 24 

Youth Afield 25 

On the Waterfront 26 

Index to Virginia Wildlife, 1974 27 

Merry Christmas ! 28 

Observations, conclusions and opinions expressed in Virginia Wildlife 
are those of the authors and do not necessarily reflect those of the 
members or staff of the Commission of Game and Inland Fisheries. 

COVER: Snow Buntings, by John W. Taylor. Edge- 
water, Md. 

SUBSCRIPTIONS: One year. $2.00; three years, 
$5.00. Make check or money order payable to Treas- 
urer of Virginia and send to Commission of Game 
and Inland Fisheries, P. 
Virginia 23230. 

O. Box 11104, Richmond, 

Virginia Wildlife is published monthly at Richmond, Virginia, by the Commission of Game and Inland Fisheries, 4010 W. Broad Street. 
All magazine subscriptions, change of address notices, and inquiries should be sent to Box 11104, Richmond, Va. 23230. The editorial 
office gratefully receives for publication news items, articles, photographs, and sketches of good quality which deal with Virginia's soils, 
water, forests, and wildlife. The Commission assumes no responsibility for unsolicited manuscripts and illustrative material. Credit is 
given on material published. Permission to reprint text material is granted provided credit is given the Virginia Commission of Game and 
Inland Fisheries and Virginia Wildlife, but clearance also should be obtained from contributing free-lance writers, artists and photog- 
raphers to reproduce their work. Second-class postage paid at Richmond. Va. 





AMERICA'S waterfowl hunters and possibly even her 
waterfowl themselves suffered a setback last month when 
the Fish and Wildhfe Service, under pressure of a lawsuit, 
agreed to file environmental impact statements on future 
waterfowl season. The suit would have effectively closed 
the 1974 waterfowl season. The morass of technical 
requirements for environmental impact statements could 
not have been complied with in time. To meet the 
prescribed environmental impact timetable federal wildlife 
officials may, in the future, have to make their surveys and 
estimates far in advance of their previous last minute 
evaluation. This means less factual information and more 
guesswork and estimates. Since the annual waterfowl crop 
can only be assessed accurately a few weeks before the 
framework is announced, making decisions months in 
advance to satisfy bureaucratic red tape will do little to 
safeguard our waterfowl. All this to satisfy a handful of 
groups whose only interest in waterfowl hunting is to see it 

If they had succeeded or do succeed what could our 
waterfowl look forward to? No duck stamp money, no 
excise tax from waterfowl gunning supplies, only paltry 
handouts barely adequate to keep federal wildlife agency 
doors open. It is doubtful these preservationists could do 
much to shake loose any support for waterfowl refuges, 
banding programs, breeding ground preservation or winter 
food once the incentive and funds for these programs had 
been cut off. 

Today waterfowl, tomorrow what — Deer? Quail? 
Squirrels? Turkeys? The Game Commission already sets 
these seasons 4 to 6 months in advance to meet current 
legal requirements. If they were forced to meet additional 
deadlines they might be put in the awkward position of 
setting next year's seasons before this year's were over. 
Our wildhfe resources should be managed with the best 
data available. 

Besides, the environmental norm is to have a hunting 
season similar to those in effect across the country this 
year. This has been going on in most states since the early 
1900's. Seasons are always chosen to produce minimum 
environmental change. A closed season would produce the 
real change and I challenge any protectionist group to 
write a scientifically accurate environmental impact 
statement in support of it that would show the overall 
effect to be in the best interests of the country and its 
wildhfe resources. 



The article "Scram or Stay Put" by Alan 
Guthrie was very interesting but raised some 
question. What does the line dividing across 
Giles County represent? Since 5 of the 9 tags 
returned were from deer killed by poachers, I 
assume they were subsequently arrested and 
convicted. Do you have any idea why all deer 
seemed to travel toward the middle of the 

Gale B. Webb 

The line dividing Giles County is New River. 
The deer were trapped from Radford Arsenal 
which is on the New River and appeared to 
travel toward the River either searching for 
water or a landmark. The 5 deer were found 
dead in fields indicating illegal shooting but 
unfortunately the culprits are not aluxiys 

J. Alan Guthrie 


C. L. Lundgren did a nice job of describing his 
experiences in a beautiful section of Shenan- 
doah Park in his article "Autumn Interlude" in 
the September Issue. However, changes in 
camping poUcies since that time mi^t get 
others in trouble who try to duplicate the trip. 

Primitive camping is allowed only when more 
than 250 yards from paved roads, more than 
one-half mile from campgrounds or other 
facilities and not within view of any of the 
above or of any unpaved road, trail shelter or 
another camping party or within 25 feet of a 
stream. Those planning to visit the parks are 
urged to write for complete two-page rules 
governing backcountry camping. Address ■ 
Shenandoah Park, Luray, Virginia 22835. — 


Although I am from Suffolk, I usually take a 
few days off to hunt in Augusta County. I also 
want to hunt some in the Dismal Swamp but as 
I interpret the wording on the tabs if I kill a 
deer in the swamp, a 2 deer area, I cannot hunt 
in Augusta. Ami correct? 

F. L. Forest, Jr. 

Yes. Even if you use your number 1 tab in a 2 
deer county you cannot hunt in any county 
with a one deer limit. This is to prevent using 
both tabs in a one deer county by claiming the 
first was used elsewhere. — Ed. 

A simple and convenient way of preventing this 
would be to require the big game check card as 
proof of where the first deer was killed. 

F. L. Forest 



WEARILY. I made myself comfortable on the 
dirt encrusted roots of a big blowdown. To my 
left, across the logging road, was higher ground ; 
a few big oaks and slender pines, very little low growth. 
To my right on the near side of the road the cover 
was thicker. It consisted of a low swale about seventy 
five yards wide, with higher ground and dense timber 
beyond. I had been there about five minutes when I 
thought I heard a sound. 

What was it? Peering intently into the brushy tangle 
off to my right I tried to find with my eyes what my 
ears told me was moving out there. 

Suddenly, there they were, three of them. I could 
tell two were bucks and that one of them was a beaut. 
I carefully eased back the hammer on the Marlin lever- 
action 30-30, using trigger counter-pressure to make 
sure there wouldn't be a click. But I knew I would wait. 
Too much brush. They weren't spooked. There was no 
breeze ; and I wasn't making any because my breathing 
had stopped. 

They were moving along slowly, purposefully, that 
sort of half-run, half-walk of the whitetail ; but their 
direction was definite. They were going to cross the 
road. By now I had made my decision. I would wait 
until they reached the high ground on the other side. 
If I never fired a shot I would wait for the good shot. 
One time — just one time — the good shot. They were 
out of my vision now. Had I gambled right? 

It was the last day of the hunting season in \'ir- 
ginia. The regulations read, "Bag limit, one. Either 
sex last day only." January 5, a day of bad weather, 
bad decisions, bad luck. And a stuck truck. I had un- 
wisely decided to go down the last stretch of logging 
road leading to my favorite deer area. When I had 
second thoughts and tried to turn around I found my- 
self athwart the road, the Chewy pickup hopelessly 
mired, up to its axles in mud, roadside brush, and 
melting snow. Things couldn't have been worse. 

You'd have to say I'm an eightball. You know my 
type. I don't necessarily spoil the pleasures of my hunt- 
ing and fishing pals, but sometimes I do draw from 
them headshaking looks of pity, or disbelief. You know. 
Some of you have been there. If the fish have just 
started to strike, I get a backlash. If after the long 
wait the doves have come pouring in over the field, 
my gun jams. If a single quail rattles up out of that 
grass clump and gives me a classic eight foot straight- 

away shot, the Remington 1100 snaps to my shoulder 
and I click him to death with the safety f)n. 

Now retired, I was manager of a chain drug store 
in Culpeper, Virginia, in the rolling plains piedmont 
section of the north-central part of the state, just east 
of the Blue Ridge Mountains. I'd always wanted a place 
in the country with a few acres where I could grow 
vegetables and a few head of cattle, and I got it. Not 
only did I want to get away from the big city hassle, 
but I wanted to get close to some good fishing and 
hunting as well. 

Criglersville. the little village where I live, was twenty 
miles from my job but it gave me the best of two worlds. 
I was able to earn a good living at the work I liked 
best ; yet by driving that twenty miles I could come 
home and shoot clay birds with my sons in the back 
field, or butcher a hog in the back yard. Nobody cared. 
If you could fly like a bird and you flew due west, in 
about fifteen minutes you'd cross the famous Skyline 
Drive of the Shenandoah National Park. 

Back to my story. As I went to bed the night before, 
I tried to evaluate my prospects. A heavy snowfall from 
the week before still lay on the ground. That was good. 
But the forecast was for a warming trend. Not so good. 
Oh well, it couldn't get rid of all Ihat snow. 

When the alarm punched me awake at 4 :30 it was 
to the accompaniment of steadily falling rain. For an 
instant I was tempted to snuggle back down into my 
cocoon. But then I remembered; "last day," like Christ- 
mas, comes but once a year. The rain would alter my 
clothing plans. I put on a red cotton flannel shirt over 
a rainproof parka. A cjuick breakfast, fix a lunch, grab 
the rifle and ammo; I was on my way. 

An hour and fifteen minutes later, as I maneuvered 
the pickup over those CCC logging roads, I had a slight 
sense of foreboding. It was to be slippery going. The 
snow was melting faster than I thought. At one point, 
a mile from my favorite area, there is a T in the road. 
The upper part of the T is that mile, a road that runs 
along the side of a huge clear-cut (now beginning to 
grow back with seedlings), with woods on the left. 


As described earlier, it was on this road that I stuck 
the truck. It was almost as if I were hell bent to foul 
up my last chance for a whitetail. Well, eightball, I 
thought to myself, you did it again. At this point I 
was so disgusted I decided to consign the extrication 
of my wheels to some vague and murky future time. 
I went hunting. 

But it wasn't much good. With rain above me, wet 
snow under me and my spirits pretty soggy too, I still- 
hunted the next couple of hours. It was no go. Try as 
I would I couldn't get the damn truck off my mind. 
Then about ten o'clock the rain suddenly stopped and 
the sun came out. Warm. I came out of the woods to 
the terminus of the road. 

Then things started to get better. There I met an- 
other hunter. He was standing in the road peeling ofiF 
a couple of layers of clothing in deference to the sudden 
heat. He was preparing to go back and meet a buddy 
for lunch. I told him about my predicament. 

"No sweat," he said. "I've got a shovel in my truck. 
We'll help get you out." A feeling of relief swept over 
me. Yes, things were looking up. 

But it turned out to be a good hour of hard sweating 
labor. Dig, dig, dig ; gain a foot. More mud and snow 
in the truck bed for balast. Dig some more. Finally we 
made it. At noon we had my ill-fated vehicle alongside 
his, back at the T. 

I thanked my friends eloquently as they started to 
unwrap sandwiches. I reached for my own lunch. 
Whadda ya know? No lunch. I had made it and for- 
gotten to bring it . . . eightball strikes again. 

There was only one thing to do. I was hungry. I 
headed out of the Continental can land and nine miles 
down the blacktop to the general store at Todd's 
Tavern. As I slid and slipped on those wet clay roads, 
I almost decided to call it a day. The odds against me 
were getting longer and longer, and fast. 

But something told me not to. 

With sandwiches and coffee under my belt I felt 
better. I drove back in and parked at the T. 

The big woods that paralleled the clear-cut was a 
combination of mixed conifers and hardwoods, with 
some laurel underneath. The snow that remained was 
laced with tracks. Plenty of deer here ; I knew that. 
I had seen them more than once on previous visits, but 
never a decent shot ; flag wavers, or too much brush. 
The time of day was all wrong. It was now two o'clock. 
All at once I realized that I was in the fringe of the 
woods and that I was adjacent to the big sawdust pile. 
(These sawdust piles make tremendous vantage points 
from which to scan the clear-cut and the woods edge. 
Many a deer has been toppled by hunters shooting from 
their peaks.) 

There was a man on top. 

He yelled, sotto voce, "Where'd ya park this time?" 

I had to laugh. "Back at the T," I replied, using the 
same subdued tone. With a wave of my hand I turned 


left and went on down the road. About 150 yards from 
where this conversation took place the road turns and 
goes into the big woods. It had been my observation 
that there were more tracks on the curve than anywhere 

This is where I mounted the roots of the blowdown 
and the three deer came into view. Then all the pieces 
fell into place. 

I fixed my eyes overtop the little roadside cedars, 
waiting. When I saw a whitetail climbing the slight 
incline I couldn't believe my eyes. It was the prime 
buck. His rack looked to me like a TV antenna. The 
range was about sixty yards. He was still crossing more 
or less brpadside to me. I laid the bead of the iron sights 
low on his shoulder. Mentally I was shouting, "Stop. 
Stop, beautiful ! STOP !" 

Believe it or not he stopped, framed full length be- 
tween two big oaks. Incredible. 

At the shot he whirled and started back down the 
slope the way he'd come, but just before he disappeared 
behind the cedars I saw his front legs collapse. If still 
running he would have to show again on the low side of 
the road. He didn't show. For five minutes I didn't 
move, but just watched the remaining buck and the doe. 
They were still on the lower side and still didn't know 
where I was. Finally they drifted back across the swale 
and into heavy cover. 

I knew the big buck was mine. I climbed down from 
my perch and pushed through the screen of evergreens. 
Thirty yards away, he lay conveniently in the middle 
of the road. 

As I was tagging my prize my friend came hurrying 
around the bend. "That's a mighty fine buck," he said. 
I agreed. He helped me dress him and drag him out. 
During this arduous chore, during one of our many rest 
stops, he said, "I saw those three deer down there in 
the brush." 

"What!" I exploded. "Why didn't you shoot?" 

He said, simply, "I didn't know where you were." 
Now understand this : the deer season was going to 
end in about two hours. He had three deer in sight, 
any one of which he could kill legally ; he was carrying 
a rifle just like mine, except in .35 Remington, more 
than adequate for the 150 yards or so of range. He 
befriended me all day long and then passed up his one 
chance for game because good safety practice dictated 
'don't shoot.' I am not mentioning his name because 
he'd be embarrassed ; but he is a true sportsman in every 
sense of the word. There should be more like him. 

The head was mounted by L. F. Lee, of Marshall, 
Virginia. I entered the rack in the eight-point compe- 
tition in Virginia's ofiical Game Commission contest for 
that year. No, it didn't win an award, although it 
came close. But I had the fun of seeing it officially 
scored (156-4/8), and I believe it should have won 
somebody's award for perfection. 



Claude Rogers 

glasses bay for 

feeding gulls. 




GLxA.NCING anxiously at Claude Rogers, I un- 
hooked the sparkling silver-toned striped bass 
and slid it into the fish box. I was pleased with 
that school striper and hoped to land a few more like 
it, but I was not sure Claude shared my enthusiasm. In 
fact he had already racked his rod and was glassing 
the broad expanse of blue Chesapeake Bay. 

Reading my host's thoughts, I knew my time over 
that school was limited. I commenced to fish frantically. 

Claude lives in Virginia Beach, close to some of the 
best fishing along the Atlantic coast. He enjoys an 
enviable reputation. For many years his 44-pound, 
10-ounce striped bass, captured in the Virginia Beach 
surf, held the state record. His record fell back in 1962, 
and I could not help but feel he was anxious to re- 
capture his title. 

"Disadvantage of fishing with a champion," I mum- 
bled to myself. Claude knows his striper fishing, but 
he was not interested in the scrappy 2 and 3 pounders 
I was having a ball with. 

Claude had not been too optimistic when I phoned 
him the day before. "We have had gale winds, and 
now the wind is blowing out of the northwest," he had 
warned. "The weather makes our winter fishing a risky 
proposition for anyone who has to travel far for it," 
he added. My home in the central part of the state is 
150 miles from Virginia Beach. 

But it was late December and I knew that winter run 
of stripers could not last much longer. My daughter, 
Pam, lives in Virginia Beach and teaches in the city 
school system. I decided to take a chance. Three hours 
later I turned into her driveway. 

"I'll pick you up about 8 o'clock tomorrow," Claude 
advised when I reported my arrival. "No use in hurry- 
ing. The wind is calm now, but the water will be rough 
for awhile tomorrow." 

Shortly after 8 o'clock the next morning we were 
speeding eastward across the Chesapeake Bay Bridge- 
Tunnel, headed for the Eastern Shore where Claude 
keeps his boat much of the long fishing season. 

He glanced at the water. A heavy chop was still 
kicking up. "Wind still out of the northwest and buck- 
ing an incoming tide, but the tide will change about 
noon and the water will calm down. We might as well 
wait until then to go out." 

After lunch, we headed for a motel where Claude kept 
his trailered boat. We soon had it in tow and were en 
route to the Kiptopeke launching ramp. 

Claude jockeyed the trailer into the shallow water 
and within minutes we were afloat and loading fishing 
tackle, boots and foul-weather gear aboard the big 18- 
foot seagoing outboard. 

In spite of troublesome winds that swept cold air 
out of the northwest and down the broad Chesapeake 
Bay, it was a beautiful, crisp, sun-filled day. It was cold, 
a typical late December day, but we were dressed 
warmly. In fact the sun was so bright that Claude 
was concerned about sun and windburn. He applied 
protective lotion to his face and offered me some. 

At the turn of the starter switch the big outboard 
motor purred smoothly. I was beginning to feel opti- 

We wound slowly down a marshland creek and into 
a broad expanse of relatively calm water between Smith 
Island and the northern end of the bridge-tunnel. Once 
clear of the shallow water, we sped toward the long 
bridge. The unprotected water was choppy, but there 
were no whitecaps. 

We passed beneath the bridge and turned left, run- 
ning parallel to it. We then slowed to cruising speed 
and Claude turned on his ship-to-shore radio. 

I listened anxiously to the idle radio chatter, but 
Claude shook his head. "They are not doing anything," 
he mumbled. We then swung back to the ocean side of 
the bridge and Rogers uncased his binoculars and 
started glassing the water. A handful of fishing boats 
danced on the gently rolling bay. Occasionally we met 
a boat trolling slowly along the bridge pilings. 

I was disappointed. The Chesapeake Bay system has 
long been recognized as a prime breeding ground for 


Trolling along the bridge pilings for stripers is popular. 

the Atlantic striper fishery. Many marine biologists say 
it is the single most important breeding area for the 
anadromous fish that range the coastal waters from 
Nova Scotia to Florida. Known locally as rock, the 
striper has been popular among Chesapeake Bay anglers 
for years. A large resident population is boosted by the 
migratory fish that move in and out of the bay as they 
make their semiannual jaunts up and down the Atlantic 

Then in the early 1960's striped bass fishing took 
on a refreshing new look when a rich new fishery was 
discovered right in the broad mouth of the Bay. Man 
and one of his engineering miracles was accidentally 
responsible. In 1962 the first pilings and rocky founda- 
tions were placed under water as the "ground floor" 
for the long planned Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel 
built to replace the ferry system that for years had 
shuttled automobiles and passengers between the Vir- 
ginia mainland and the Eastern Shore. The tunnel to 
the north and nearest Cape Charles is known as Balti- 
more Channel and the southern one as the Thimble 
Shoal Channel. The islands are numbered one to four 
running south to north. Islands 1 and 2 are also known 
as South and North Island. 

The system was opened to trafiftc in 1964, and in 
1965 the exciting new striper fishery hit its peak along 
the long bridge-tunnel complex. Stripers, or rocks, true 
to their favorite Virginia name, fell in love with the 
big jumble of rocks, concrete and giant boulders. 

Locating a school of bass is half the game in striper 
fishing. The winter fish are selective feeders, but once 
a school is located an angler can usually catch fish. 

Many schools are found by trolling along the bay- 
bridge tunnel. 

Probably a quicker way to find stripers is to watch 
for feeding birds — screaming, diving and wheeling gulls. 
Under the birds there is usually a school of bass feasting 
on shiners or menhaden. The birds dive for the tidbits 
the feeding fish leave. That is the reason Claude had 
his glasses along. He used them constantly, searching 
the water for signs of birds. 


Skilled striper anglers also watch for oil slicks caused 
by feeding striped bass. 

As we neared the middle of the bay the bridge dis- 
appeared into the choppy blue water, but then reappeared 
toward the other side of the bay. "That is the Baltimore 
Tunnel," Claude said, explaining the tunnel part of the 
bridge-tunnel structure. Across the wide expanse of 
open water a half dozen boats were anchored near the 
rocky artificial island. 

"They are catching fish!" I exclaimed as an angler's 
rod bent sharply and then started vibrating. 

"Tautog," said Claude. 

As we cruised away from the tautog fishermen, 
Claude slowed the boat and picked up his binoculars. 
He focused them on a handful of boats off to our left 
and in the general direction of Virginia Beach. 

"Rock fishermen," he said, casing his binoculars and 
gunning the motor for a cjuick run to the general vicinity 
of the fleet of fishing boats. 

As we approached the fleet, Claude unracked a rod 
and handed it to me. "You fish first and let me handle 
the boat," I countered.' Tf you get a strike I'll join you." 

He made a few long, but unsuccessful casts while I 
maneuvered the boat. 

"Birds over there!'' Claude pointed back in the direc- 
tion of the bridge-tunnel. I swung the boat around, but 
hadn't gone a hundred yards before several other boats 
roared in ahead of us. 

"Might as well go somewhere else," muttered Claude 
in disgust. "They will run right into the school and 
make it sound. That is one of our problems today with 
so many inexperienced fishermen on the bay." 

I gave the wheel back to Claude and put away the 
rod he had rigged for me to use. 

"Let's try somewhere else away from this crowd." 

Most striped bass are migratory fish that move up 
and down the Atlantic Coast with the seasons. Many 
enter the Chesapeake Bay to spawn or spend the winter, 

(Continued on page 12) 

Author shows off a small school striper. 



YOU'RE standing on a frozen logging road, a shot- 
gun in the crook of your arm, your hands thrust 
deep within your pockets. You're surrounded by 
hardwoods, thick with undergrowth, and your visibiHty 
is hmited to about a hundred yards in any direction. 
It's mid-December, your breath makes clouds of mist 
in the air, and your toes hurt from the cold. You endure 
this patiently, absorbing the spell of the world of leafless 
hardwoods, twisted gray forms above the floor carpeted 
with brown leaves. Nothing moves, no sound is heard, 
but you wait, expectant. And then it comes, the sound 
you've been listening for for the last several minutes — 
the wild, musical, spine-tingling bay of a hound who 
has struck a spoor. In the next few minutes the hounds 
bay intermittently as they work a cold trail ; but then 
begin a roiling, high-tempo chant where the trail be- 
comes fresh. Do they bring the quarry your way? Not 
this time. The music later ends where the hounds come 
to a road and are caught by another hunter and returned 
to their kennels. But never mind — maybe they'll come 
your way next time; and if not then, perhaps the time 
after that. 

The quarry the hounds were after may or may not 
have been shot, depending on a number of things. What 
are you hunting? Why, deer, of course, club style, with 
hounds. It's one of the most popular and enduring sports 
in the Southeast, but particularly so in central and east- 
ern Virginia, where hounds are intertwined with so 
many traditions that the State Legislature in recent 
years designated a hound as the official State Dog. 

Club style hunting with hounds has to rate high 
in both pleasure and ecological soundness. There is 
nothing quite like the sensation one experiences while 
listening to hounds in chase. Standing near a woods 
road deep in a forest, with no other human in sight, 
it's easy to imagine that you are living ages ago when 
man appeared on the earth and first learned that he 
could drive packs of wild wolf-dogs away from their 


kill and take the food for himself. The feeling of excite- 
ment, almost of exaltation, that you have when the 
hounds start coming your way with their yelping, mu- 
sical chant is something I have never been able to put 
into words. I would judge that I am not unique in ex- 
periencing this feeling, for I know many hunters even 
more dedicated to the sport than I. 

I've been enjoying those pleasures almost annually 
for over twenty years now. Except for those years 
when I've lived out of the state. I've hunted deer with 
the Mount Hope Hunt Club since I was old enough to 
carry a gun. Located in a forested area about fifteen 
miles from the town of Appomattox, the club is in many 
ways typical of a large number of similar clubs in the 
Southeast. The Mount Hope club, and many others 
like it in central and eastern Virginia (it is illegal to 
hunt deer with dogs west of the Blue Ridge), came into 
being when favorable conditions occurred in the 1940's. 
Prior to that time, a huntable deer population was non- 
existent in the central Virginia area. Old-timers in the 

A stint on the 
stand is anything 
but dull. The 
music of the 
hounds holds out 
hope that game 
may appear at any 
moment. Since 
moving deer usu- 
ally spot the 
standers shooting 
is anything but 


region report that in the late 1920's and 1930's, they 
would sometimes spend several seasons in the woods 
after other types of game and never see a single deer 
track, not to mention an actual deer. But then in the 
1940's, the abandonment of many small farms, and a 
rapid harvesting of large tracts of timl)er created ideal 
habitat conditions for newly stocked deer. /V deer popu- 
lation emerged quickly, and e(|ually as fast, hunting- 
clubs sprang up to take advantage of the opportunities. 
Many of the clubs flared briefly, then sputtered and went 
out. Those that remained, like the Mount Hope club, 
were efficiently organized and were made up of a close- 
knit group of men capable of a high degree of mutual 
cooperation, whose activities were characterized by a 
spirit of good fellowship. 

The hunting technique used by clubs is quite simple. 
The hunters position themselves along one or more 
back roads so they form a straight line, curve, or V. 
Each man stations himself on a known crossing site, 
or "stand." A half-mile or mile in front of the men, a 
"driver" releases the dogs and, yelling and walking 
noisily, starts them toward the line of hunters. Deer bed 
down during the day, and the purpose of the noisy 
drive is to get the deer in the path of the driver moving 
toward the waiting hunters, so that when the dogs strike 
a trail, the chase will proceed in the right direction. 

Anti-hunting types attack this style of hunting, claim- 
ing that the dogs cruelly run down and kill large num- 
bers of deer, and that a group of men and dogs hunting- 
deer is simply a form -of organized slaughter. Both 
charges are false. 

The dogs, to begin with, are not self-hunters desper- 
ately seeking food. They are fed daily in the club kennels. 
They hunt out of instinct, out of the sheer love of the 
chase. Because they are not driven by hunger, they 
will seldom attempt to attack a deer. It takes only 
one experience for a dog to learn that even a small doe 
can deliver a painful injury with just one blurred flick 
of a pointed hoof. 

When a deer does run, however, it can easily out- 
distance a dog. The dogs give chase not at a full run, 
but at a leisurely dog trot, often stopping to sniff and 
work out a lost or twisting trail. The equivalent deer 
pace- — a leisurely lope — leaves the dogs far behind, and 
the "fleeing" deer actually spend a great deal of time 

standing in one spot, 

listening- and looking in all 


It is for this reason, among others, that the hunters 
do anything but "slaughter" deer. In probably 80% 
of the instances I am aware of, a deer approaching a 
hunter had spotted the hunter well before he was within 
shooting range. This is not too surprising when you 
consider that the gun used in this style of hunting is 
almost invariably a shotgun. In my area, rifles of cal- 
iber suitable for shooting deer are outlawed. This kind 
of hunting is best carried out in country with dense 
enough undergrowth to provide browse to support a 


heavy deer population. The land must also be relatively 
flat and crisscrossed with roads to facilitate the drives. 
Reasons given for not using a rifle include the flat 
terrain, the heavy undergrowth, the proximity of farms, 
livestock, vehicles, dogs, and other humans. The only 
choice, then, is a shotgun, which has, in typical cover, 
a maximum effective range on deer of about forty to 
fifty yards. Longer shots have been known to kill deer, 
but experienced hunters pass them by to avoid the 
possibility of crippling game. 

Accurate placement of a shot is not nearly so easy 
as it might seem. Because of the heavy undergrowth, 
a shot must be directed down a narrow corridor of fire 
between trees and saplings. Many a hunter has fired at 
a deer, only to have a tree or bush spring up in front 
of the shot before they could reach the target. In fact, 
it is a standing joke among most clubs that you can 
spot the "hot" stands of a given year simply by looking 
for fresh shot-marks on the trees and bushes. 

To compound the difficulty, by the time the deer 
has come within shotgun range, he has usually spotted 
the hunter, and this means that he veers and shifts 
into high gear. The visual impact is that you see a 
flash of white tail and the deer instantly becomes an 
enlongated brown blur, bounding in a zig-zag course 
through the brush in leaps of over twenty feet. Even 
crossing a road, he may be moving so fast, and in 
bounds that are so unexpectedly and confoundingly 
high or low, that even the best marksman leaves the 
deer unscathed. 

Buckshot or slugs, if they connect, will within rea- 
sonable range usually bring a deer down. If a deer does 
get away wounded, the hound hunter has a tremendous 
advantage over his still-hunting brethren because the 
dogs will trail the wounded deer and take the hunters 
to him, often with the weakened deer at bay, or already 
dead. A wounded deer that escapes to suffer or die is 
almost unheard of among such clubs as Mount Hope. 

Obviously, the successful conduct of a deer hunting 
club with numerous members, large land holdings, and 
a considerable number of dogs, requires effective lead- 

(Continued on page 22) 






Illustrated by Lucile Walton 

THE state of Virginia must have one of the highest 
standards in the world for flower arranging of all 
kinds. Every garden club in the state holds con- 
tests for arrangements, spring flowers, buds, single 
species arrangements, dinner table centerpieces, special 
color effects, terraria and other long-term living ar- 
rangements, and, at this time of year, long-term dried 
arrangements, Christmas wreaths and decorations. 

It is not my purpose here to try in any way to write 
a treatise on dried arrangements. I feel incompetent and 
humble in the face of a barrage of experts. However, 
there are some unusual plants which can be fun to use 
in the house in the winter time, and which dry naturally 
on the plant without any special treatment. I thought 
it might be of interest to point out a few. 

The yam family, Dioscoreaceae, has only one genus 
in this part of the world, Dioscorca, divided up into 
about four species. D. quateniafa is a partial vine, the 
stem being erect initially, then twining for the last few 
feet of its length. The lower leaves are in whorls of 4-7, 
further along the stem the leaves are opposite while the 
uppermost leaves are alternate. There are staminate and 
pistillate flowers both of which are small and incon- 
spicuous. It is the capsule containing the seeds which 
is the showy part of the plant. Oval, pendulous and 
three-sided, with each side extended into a slight flange, 
the capsules resemble miniature Japanese lanterns. They 
hang in rows along the upper part of the plant and re- 
main on the stem after the seeds have been shed, dry- 
ing out to form crisp, grayish-brown structures which 
are slightly translucent. Long strands of Dioscorea cap- 
sules can be brought into the house where they will last 
indefinitely and form an attractive addition to any win- 
ter arrangement. 

One of my favorites amongst naturally dried plants 


is the teasel. Belonging to a small family, the Dipsa- 
caceae, the teasel, Dipsacus, has a dense head of usually 
blue flowers at the end of a long, often prickly stalk. 
The name comes from the Greek word for thirst, dipsa, 
a reference to the water which collects in the "cup" 
formed by the united bases of the leaves in some species. 
Teasels frequent roadsides, old fields, pastures, stream 
banks and waste places. By the end of October, the 
flowers are over and the brown bristly heads of the 
teasels rise above the other vegetation. Teasels can be 
clipped and brought in just as they are to enhance in- 
door decorations. But any family of children who has 
not been subjected to a session of making "teasel mice" 
has missed a real treat. The stalk is cut off about half 
an inch from the head of the teasel and adorned with 
a blob of sealing wax to form the "nose" of the mouse. 
The long prickly pointed bracts of the involucre are 
removed and on either side of the stalk black-headed 
pins are inserted for the "eyes." The bristles of the 
teasel are trimmed, particularly severely on one side 
so that the mouse rests on a flat base. Ovals and a thin 
strip of felt or leather are then inserted with ordinary 
pins for "ears" and a "tail," and there is your "mouse !" 
I still have the teasel mouse which a friend made with 
me when I was recovering from appendicitis at the age 
of 7, testimony to the lasting properties of these toys ! 

The grasses must not be neglected when there are 
such artistic ones as the bottle-brush grass around. 
Hystrix is a true grass (family Gramineae) and there 
is only one species in the eastern U.S., Hystrix patula. 
It is an impossible plant to press adequately because of 
its three dimensional nature, but it dries naturally on 
its stem and will last indefinitely indoors without any 
further treatment making an attractive addition to any 
winter bowl, or a nice arrangement just by itself. 

Cotton-grass, Eriophorum virginicinn, is not a grass : 
it is a sedge, family Cyperaceae. The sedges are an enor- 
mous and rather difficult family of monocotyledons, 
characteristically with triangular stems and many-flow- 
ered spikelets arranged in a dense terminal head or um- 
bel. In all species of Eriophonmi the bristles are very 
numerous, elongated and silky, varying in color from 
white, through cream-colored to tawny. The name 
Eriophorum comes from the Greek word for wool or 
cotton, crion, and phoros meaning bearing. Cotton-grass 
is found in mountain and coastal bogs and other damp 
acid places in the state. Like most sedges, it flowers in 
the late summer and fall and the "cotton balls" stay on 
the plant into the winter. If treated carefully, the sedge 
can be picked and kept in the house without losing any 
of its natural beauty. 

This is only a tiny fraction of the plants which can 
be brought into the house in December and without 
any synthetic drying process. I hope they add a few 
unusual notes to some of the magnificent winter ar- 
rangements which bring the woods into so many Wr- 
ginia homes. Have a Hapjn' Christmas ! 





THE southeastern horizon was just beginning to 
show signs of dayhght when Don Linke's pickup 
pulled into my driveway. I'll never forget the day. 
It was December 5, 1973. As he appeared out of the 
darkness and pouring rain, we looked at each other with 
identical expressions, each asking himself the same ques- 
tion — "Do you think he still wants to go fishing in this 
weather?!!" Carefully picking his words, in order not 
to give me the slightest hint as to whether he was ex- 
cited about fishing in this weather or not, he said, 
"Kinda wet, ain't it?" 

"According to the books, this is the best weather 
for fishing," I replied, not sure who I was trying to 
encourage, him or myself. 

"Well, I'm willing if you are." 

"Okay, then let's go." 

Subconsciously, we both knew all along that we would 
be going no matter what the weather was like. I believe 
we would both go out in a hurricane to fish. As it turned 
out, I think that's just what we did. 

The rain had let up then from a downpour to just a 
plain hard rain, so we put on plenty of warm clothing 
and our rainsuits, filled the boat with our gear and a 
couple of thermoses of hot chocolate, and headed for 
the reservoir. By the time we got the boat in the water, 
it had settled down to a light rain and things were 
looking up. 

But then it happened ! The electric motor was in high 
as we were making our way to one of our favorite fish- 
ing holes, about a mile up the reservoir, when suddenly it 
was as if God's wrath came down upon us. The wind got 
up, the sky got black, and we could see the rain coming 
at us like a solid white wave across the reservoir. By 
the time we got to the fishing hole, we could look out 
over the water and see nothing but rain coming down 
at a 35 degree angle and an occasional whitecap. 

The ten pound anchor I dropped over the back of the 
boat wouldn't hold the boat in the gusty wind, no mat- 
ter how much rope I let out. I had to use the motor in 
conjunction with the anchor just to hold the boat over 
the fishing hole. 

"Remind me next time to bring the kitchen sink for 
an anchor!" I told Don as he frantically bailed water 
with the cup from his thermos bottle. 

The fishing hole was a rocky clifif-like bank that 
dropped almost straight down into the water. Under- 
water, it sloped down sharply to a 20-25 foot depth. At 
about 8 feet out it dropped off again into 30-35 feet of 


water. This deeper water was the old river channel 
that was there before the reservoir was built. We knew 
these depths beforehand because we had scanned this 
area earlier in the fall with a depth sounder. If you are 
a structure fisherman, you will have already recognized 
this as a good bassin' hole. 

With cold, numb, and waterlogged fingers we tied 
on our worm hooks, and I baited up with an eight-inch, 
black, plastic worm while Don went with the purple. 
We began casting to the cliff, letting the worm slowly 
"crawl" down the rocky slope to the 20 foot level, then 
slowly dragging it over the breakline into the river 
channel. The process was slow and tedious, and it was 
difficult to "feel" the worm in such high winds. 

We had been there about fifteen minutes and were 
beginning to doubt our sanity when suddenly, as I was 
about to drag my worm over the dropofif, I felt the ever 
so slight but unmistakable "tap" of a bass picking up 
the worm. I very slowly tried to reel up as much slack 
as I could without the fish feeling me. The wind had 
rainbowed my line too much to risk trying to set the 
hook immediately as I usually like to. With a couple 
of turns of the reel handle I picked up most of the slack, 
and I could still feel pressure on my line. I set the hook 
hard, almost throwing Don out of the boat, and in- 
stantly I knew I was into something good. I am farhous 
for setting the hook with enough force to break a bass' 
back, especially when using heavy tackle and a good 
stiff worm rod. Friends who fish with me have been 
known to grab both sides of the boat when they saw 
me picking up my slack. On several occasions I have 
hooked small bass in shallower water and yanked them 
out of the water and over the boat. I'm sure you get 
the message. 

Anyway, that's how I knew I had something out of 
the ordinary when I set the hook. I hardly budged the 
fish ! He simply went to deeper water. I wasn't using 
a worm rod at the time, but I had a medium action rod 
with 10-pound test line so I was able to turn him with- 
out too much fear of his breaking off. His next move 
was just what you would expect. He came almost 
straight up. Just before he broke water, I leaned on 
him hard to throw him off balance. It worked because 
all he got out of the water was his head. 

At this point I lost all concentration and self control. 
The mouth on that bass looked like a coal shovel that 
somebody stuck up out of the water and shook at me ! 

"Get the net! Get the net!" I kept screaming at Don. 
Don hesitated, trying to decide whether to get the clip- 
pers and cut my line or get the net and help me land 
the fish. (Bass fishermen are very competitive minded, 
you know.) He finally grabbed the net and decided to 
help out. 

Meanwhile the bass had gone deep again, and I was 
slowly working it back up to the boat. Forgetting every- 
thing my dad had taught me about landing a "green" 
fish, I shouted, "Get the net under him as soon as you 


can!" Shortly the bass turned up near the boat, and 
with expert netmanship Don dipped it up before it could 
make another lunge under the boat. I knew relief like 
I'd never known it before. 

Instantly I made a mad dash for my tackle box to 
get my handy-dandy fish scale. I hung the fish on it, 
and it went straight to 8 lb. The scale will only weigh 
to 8 lb (indicative of my lack of over confidence), and 
it has about a 10% tolerance, so the question was : Was 
it large enough (eight pounds or over) for that coveted 
award that I'd been striving for for years, the Va. 
Trophy Fish Citation? I'd wanted this award more 
than the Medal of Honor for so long, that I'd given it 
up as a dream, and there I sat with the fish in my hand 
and still didn't know if I had it. 

We fished the rest of the morning while the weather 
got worse and we got wetter. I'll never buy another 
five-dollar rainsuit. Don caught a nice three pounder 
along with a few more keepers, but I didn't get another 
bite. It's no wonder. I was still shaking so bad that my 
plastic worm probably looked like it was doing the 
Charleston on the bottom of the lake. 

When we finally got back, the first thing we did was 
take the fish to the nearest store and weigh it. My face 
must have lit up like a neon sign when it tipped the 
scales at 8 lb. 7 oz. 

Indeed this was a day to remember. If I never catch 
another citation bass, at least I'll be able to say that I 
did it once, and I'll have the citation hanging on my 
wall to prove it — right under the bass. 

We went out to the pickup to toast the occasion with 
a cup of hot chocolate. As Don was pouring a cup, I 
asked, "Don, is that the same cup you bailed the boat 
with on our way back to the landing ?" 

"Yeah, why?" 

"Then I wouldn't drink out of it if I were you. I'm 
not so sure that that was just plain water that was in 
the boat after I caught that bass !" 

Bridge-Tunnel Stripers (Continued from page 7) 

joining a large resident population that apparently 
moves up and down the bay and in and out of major 
tidal streams, but never out of the bay. 

The fall stripers, leaving their homes off the coast 
of New England and Long Island, arrive off the coast 
of Virginia in early November under normal weather 
conditions. A few days later they begin to appear in the 
waters off of Virginia Beach. This signals the start of 
the fall and winter run of stripers in the Chesapeake 
Bay. It is one of the most interesting seasons of the 
year to fish for the popular stripers. 

The fall run continues through December and into 
the early days of January if the weather stays mild. 

This time Claude ran the fast outboard up the bay 
again and under the bridge near South Island. As we 
broke into the open water west of the bridge Claude 
muttered something under his breath. He pointed to 


circling gulls. "Fish under those birds," he said. This 
time there were only a few boats working the school. 

"Likely small fish." said Claude handing me a rod 
and telling me to bump the lure along the bottom. As 
the feeding gulls drifted near I started fishing eagerly. 

My first cast produced nothing. Again I cast to the 
water behind our drifting boat, and started the jerk 
and pause retrieve that was supposed to do the trick. 

Suddenly my rod doubled and I struck back! "Got 
a fish!" I yelled to Claude. 

"Got a net?" I called to Claude as I worked the fish 
to the boat. 

"Don't think you will need one. The fish is not that 
big." I refused to be disappointed, and swung a good 
2-pounder aboard. 

Those fish were not large, but it was fast, exciting 
fishing and I felt we could have filled the fish box had 
we desired. In opening paragraphs of this story I 
described our departure for bigger fish. 

It was not until the early 1950's that anglers learned 
to fish for the big schools of stripers that winter in the 
Bay. The winter fish are more selective in their feeding 
habits, but there are a handful of proven lures. Probably 
the most popular of them is the bucktail. A pork rind 
helps, and yellow and white are the top colors — though 
I had used a red one with good success. Sizes and styles 
vary considerably and every angler has his pets — but 
they all catch stripers. 

Spoons give the bucktails stiff competition. Some are 
dressed with feathers, and old favorites include the 
Gathers, Nungessers and the Tony Accettas. 

Trollers also use a variety of plugs. Popular ones 
include the Rebel, Creek Chub and Atom plug. 

Surgical tubing from the medical storerooms made 
the striper fishing scene a few years back and it has 
proved effective and popular as a substitute for eels, a 
favorite striper bait. 

Regardless of the lure used, it should be worked 
slowly for the winter stripers are sluggish as winter 
and dormancy approach. 

There are a few stripers around the bridge-tunnel 
all year and anglers take them just about year 'round. 
However, fall and early winter are prime months with 
March and April also good as the fish start to stir 
again — making spawning runs up the major tidal rivers 
and out of the bay for northern waters. 

Darkness was descending upon the marshes as we 
loaded the boat on the trailer and pulled away from 
the launching ramp. 

By the time we had dropped off the boat and headed 
south along the bridge, bright lights were beckoning 
from the Virginia Beach side of the bay. I felt a sense 
of satisfaction as we breezed along. We had not caught 
any records, but few anglers are so privileged. I had 
stripers for my freezer, and within a few months au- 
tumn would come again to the Chesapeake Bay and the 
stripers would be home from New England. 


Sc'-T'o! VIRGINIA WILDLIFE ^ * -^ -i^ 

-^ tee 


J\»?ebir Commisslon Activities and Late Wildlife News ... At A Glance 

s a^ p; 

LOOK OUT FOR COLORED CANVASBACKS . Canvasbacks marked with colorful plumage dyes were 
recently released at key migrational concentration areas in the North Central 
states by wildlife research biologists of the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. 
The purpose of the color-marking program is to determine the migrational dispersal 
and wintering distribution of canvasbacks staging on the upper Mississippi River. 
During the 1974 fall migration, male canvasbacks were dyed different colors at 
concentration areas near LeCrosse, Wisconsin and Keokuk, Iowa. The colors used 
were blue, yellow and pink. Any observation of color-marked canvasbacks should 
be reported to the Northern Prairie Wildlife Research Center, P.O. Box 1717, 
Jamestown, North Dakota 58401. The following information is requested: observer 
(name and address), bird (be descriptive). In addition, information on the activity 
of the bird, size of the flock and species of ducks associated with the bird would 
be helpful. This research on the migrational habitat and destinations of the 
canvasbacks is part of a comprehensive investigation to identify major factors 
influencing the population status of this species. Any observations of these 
color-marked canvasbacks would be greatly appreciated. 

OUTDOOR LIFE PRESENTS AWARD . The OUTDOOR LIFE National Conservation Award for 1974 was 
presented to Gerald D. Schuder, Sr. of Waynesboro by Governor Mills E. Godwin, Jr. 
at the Governor's Conservation Award Program in the Hotel Chamberlain at Hampton on 
October 19. The annual event is sponsored by the Virginia Wildlife Federation and 
Sears Roebuck and Co. OUTDOOR LIFE says its 1974 award went to Schuder for his 
role in rallying public support for the regulation of channelization, a controversial 
practice in which natural streambeds are straightened to speed the flow of water. 

FISH AND WILDLIFE AID TOPS $37 MILLION . Over $37 million of Federal Aid funds for sport 
fish and wildlife restoration and hunter safety programs has been apportioned by 
Secretary of the Interior Rogers C. B. Morton to the States. U.S. Fish and Wildlife 
Service Director Lynn A. Greenwalt said the $37 million is the first of two annual 
installments that will be distributed to the States from excise taxes collected in 
fiscal year 1974. It will be used by the States to help finance fish and wildlife 
programs during the first half of fiscal year 1975. Funds for fish restoration 
programs come from a 10 percent excise tax on fishing rods, reels, creels and 
artificial baits, lures and flies. Funds for wildlife restoration and hunter 
safety come from an 11 percent excise tax on sporting arms and ammunition and 
a 10 percent excise tax on pistols and revolvers. "Since 1938 over $700 million 
has gone into improving habitat for game such as building dikes to impound deer, 
managing forest lands and fencing elk and deer from farmlands. 25% has supported 
research into such things as census-guided selection of hunting seasons, bag limits 
and life history studies on a variety of game animals. Another 20% has been 
spent buying lands such as prairie duck sloughs, winter big game ranges, 
bottomlands, desertlands--in all, more than 54 million acres, an area larger 
than the six New England States, Maryland and Hawaii combined. Apportioned 
for Virginia for the Fiscal Year 1975 is $134,516 for fish research, $540,661 
for wildlife restoration and $56,260 for hunter safety programs, totalling 
$731,427 in Federal Aid. 

^f \W 7" HAT in Heaven's name is wrong with that 

W clog ?" my husband demanded emerging from 

the cellar where he seems to live lately. It's 

getting near Christmas, you know, and he's so clever 

about making things, it seems a shame not to let him. 

"He's worrying about those squirrels." 

"Do you mean he's chasing them?" 

"Oh, no. He's not taking any undue exercise. He's 
just sitting there watching and worrying vocally. He 
expects them to fall and break their necks, I think. 
Haven't you seen them?" 

"How can I sec anything? I'm only on project 9999 
on this list you have for me to finish yesterday." 

"Well, skip down to project 10017 which is to clip 
the back hedge before winter. Then you can watch, too. 
They're harvesting the pecan crop next door and I 
expect them oil to fall off those wires from sheer ex- 
haustion. They've been at it for ages." 

So the hedges got trimmed, the squirrels got another 
watchdog and the shepherd got calmed down once he 
saw that the Master of the Household was in charge and 
had things in hand. There is a bumper crop of nuts this 
year and the squirrels have full, bushy tails. When I 
was a little girl that was supposed to mean we were in 
for a Hard Winter. I wondered about it. It was still 
like summer just then, but I had seen a junco already; 
so, as I say, I wondered about it. 

A week later the squirrels were still working furi- 
ously, and I was on the telephone describing their antics 
and those of our shepherd to a friend. 

"Oh, I know," she said. "But they're such idiots 
about it ! They hide the nuts from themselves and when 
the going gets really rugged they scramble around even 
more trying to remember where they have cached the 
nuts. We always keep a couple of bags in the garage 
and scatter a few at a time to tide them over." 

That seemed to take care of the local squirrel popu- 
lation, and I mentioned that the juncos had arrived 
rather early, I thought; but before we got well into 
that subject, I found myself blinking twice and saying, 
"Do you know it's snozving?" 

The junco, sometimes called the "snow bird," in- 
variably knows what it is doing. When they arrive, it 
means that winter is really here. For half an hour or so 
the maple tree was covered with ice and all this coupled 
with an announcement from an S.P.C.A. friend that 
she would never, repeat never, make another suet cake 
as long as she lived, set me thinking that perhaps I had 
better make some myself and lay in a store for this Hard 
Winter which seemed so imminent. 

Supplementary feeding for wild birds during the win- 
ter months when pickings are slim can be very impor- 
tant — especially if you enjoy watching birds and don't 
want them all to leave you for a more generous host. 
For years we kept a simple tray-type feeder mounted 
on a post in the yard, but lately we have discarded it 
because it seems to attract as many cats as birds ! I used 




A gift of a feeder and suet cake 
can brighten a life all winter 

to think that cats avoided yards with dogs in them, but 
this is not so. Dozens of cats pay us regular visits. 
There is one black one with a white tip on its tail who 
comes and sits on the back walk facing the kennel fence 
while Eric, our shepherd, sits opposite. The cat mews 
and Eric woofs and you would swear the two were ex- 
changing local gossip ; it is all that friendly and nice ! 
But on occasion, I have also counted as many as four 
cats gathered round the foot of the bird feeder, looking 
up with switching tails in the apparent hope that a spar- 
row or two will forget and fly down for the spills. Since 
then we have had a window feeder, but we still hang 
suet cakes and peanut butter feeders in the trees and 
pyracantha bushes for the small birds who get pushed 
out of the big feeder by their more aggressive kin. 

Some of them are aggressive. Right now the old blue 
jay that I call Peg Leg, because of a long ago injury 
from which he recovered, is pecking at the empty win- 
dow feeder like a woodpecker-gone-berserk. I suppose 
he hears my typewriter and thinks if I have time for 
that sort of nonsense I can jolly well stir myself and 
give him a handout. And the mockingbird sits on the 
railing of the back step every morning, twitching his 
tail at me and complaining until he gets his hand full 
of raisins. These animals are utterly spoiled! But they 
are characters, too, and they, like the harvesting squir- 
rels, can give uncountable hours of pleasure if you just 
sit and watch. I think a window feeder and ten pounds 


of wild bird seed is the nicest present in the world that 
one could give a long-term shut-in, or a child confined 
to bed with even a short-term illness. 

On the suet cakes. They really are rather a mess to 
make, but, like everything else, there are shortcuts if 
you are lazy enough to devise them. I am. 

The first thing to do, is to get the suet — lots of it. 
Usually a pleasant meat-counter man will have more 
suet than he knows what to do with and will give it to 
you free or at a very small charge if you explain why 
you want it. Cut it up into smallish chunks and put a 
layer of it in one or several two-inch-deep roasting pans. 
Set these in a very slow oven (about 200 degrees) and 
go on about your business. At that heat, the suet will 
melt down slowly without smoking up the kitchen, and 
after a time you will have a pan half full of liquid fat 
with shriveled up brown bits of crisp suet floating in it. 
Skim off the crisp things with a slotted spoon and feed 
them — though not all at once — to your dog or to the 
neighbor's dog if you haven't foreseen this necessity to 
own one yourself. It is good for his coat. Keeps it glossy 
and healthy. Let the fat cool in the pan. and continue 
with the business of the day. If it is a particularly nice 
day, you may want to choose this time to walk to the 
store and get the rest of the things you will need for 
the finished product you are in process of manufactur- 
ing. A nice brisk walk is invigorating, and you'll meet 
all the birds who will be enjoying your largesse later 
on. Perchance they will sing you on your way. 

When the fat is cool and ready to solidify, stir into 
each pan about half a box of bird gravel (when the 
ground is covered with snow, birds need this in order 
to digest their food), about 2 cups of peanut butter and 
as much wild bird seed as the fat will hold together. 
Smooth the top with the back of the spoon and set it 
in the refrigerator to harden. Then, cut it, like fudge, 
into cakes that will fit into your suet feeder. Store these 
in the freezer and use them, not sparingly perhaps, but 
only in cold weather when the sun will not melt them 
before the birds get to them. I put them out only when 
there is snow and the birds need the gravel and fat 
they contain. 

There are a number of types of feeders that can be 
used for these cakes. They can be put in an ordinary 
tray feeder, but the little birds wil not get much chance 
at them that way. 1liey can be tucked inside a mesh 
onion or grapefruit bag — if you can find any of these 
now. Most stores have gone to plastic, which won't do 
at all. Or if you have a real suet feeder designed to hold 
these cakes, you put them in it. The S.P.C.A. some- 
times has these, and I saw some at the Hand Work 
Shop on Church Hill recently. If you have a clever 
husband, as I have, you add it to the list — "Item 10018 
. . . Make suet feeders." I used the plural because if he 
is going to cut out one, he may as well do several. They 
make nice presents, too. Wrap the cake in plastic and 
throw in the recipe for making more as a bonus ! 



A Unique Christmas 

Cut pattern from 
1 inch lumber or 
wood 1/2 to 1 inch 
in thickness and 
assemble as 

Cut hardware 
cloth as shown. 

Fold and tack 
hardware cloth to 
large backboard. 

Remove form and 
feeder is finished. 

Complete with a plastic 
wrapped suet cake this 
inexpensive gift is ready 
to give hours of pleas- 


Mill Quarter Plantation 

WHEN I was growing up in Richmond, there 
were no shopping centers or tract house develop- 
ments to confuse which was city and which was 
country. Then it was an easy matter to drive out of the 
city and actually be in the country. As a young man, 
I often enjoyed the sounds and sights of wildlife. I felt 
like a privileged observer, being allowed to respond on 
casual visits. It was years later that I learned about the 
wonderful balance between man and wild game, both 
having a use for each other. 

When I became a serious hunter, I no longer had 
that same casual interest in wildlife. But the ground 
had been laid that enabled me to intensify my interest 
in and knowledge of wild game habits. I recognized 
the thin line that exists between good and indifferent 
wild game management. 

I have many memories of hunting since the day my 
Dad brought home a single barreled Iver Johnson. He 
never made it clear whether it was for me. It was one 
of the few times boundaries in our house were not es- 
tablished. My guess is that he wanted to see if I would 
take a natural interest in the weapon, rather than hand- 
ing it to me as a gift. 

One of the most poignant stories is about a Hun- 
garian farmer known as Pedro. His place was off High- 



A Wistful Look at Urban Sprawl and 
The Sylvan Beauty We Are Losing 

way 360, about 30 miles from Richmond, and a school 
friend and I used to get up early and hunt in those few 
precious hours after dawn and before classes on week- 
days. I met Pedro after Buck Slaughter, who did odd 
jobs for my father, learned I could drive a car. 

Buck was as gentle a man who ever lived. He had 
an easy manner and a slow way of speaking which im- 
mediately put you at ease. One afternoon, a few days 
after he had run his car into a country ditch, he asked 
me to drive him to a small farm not far from Richmond. 
In those days, after one left the city, you were in the 
country. There were no shopping centers or develop- 
ments confusing which was city and which was coun- 
try. Off we went in my family's 1948 De Soto, finally 
turning right on a country road. We passed a church 
with a well on its front lawn, a lumberyard, and a §tock 
car speedway. We passed where Buck's car a week be- 
fore had run off the road, and finally came to a one- 
story, unpainted frame house roofed with cedar shakes 
and having a large brick chimney. 

Buck got out and knocked on the door shouting 
Pedro's name. The door opened and framed in the door- 
way was a strange-looking old woman. Her head was 
covered with a cap fitted down to her nose. She obvi- 
ously couldn't see, but seemed to know her visitor by 
voice. Buck introduced me while he sat down at a table 
which seemed to occupy all the room in the house. The 
floor was hard-packed dirt but had been swept clean. 
Cooking and heating was by an old wood-burning stove. 

In a few minutes in walked a big man with broad 
shoulders and strong features. He slapped me on the 
back and seemed to know me from my Dad's store. He 
sat down and spoke to his sister in Hungarian. She 
pulled a large loaf of home-made bread out of a cup- 
board and sliced it at the table, using her fingers as a 
guide. Then she placed three jelly glasses on the table, 
followed by two gallons of wine — one red and one pale 
yellow. Pedro laughed and made conversation in broken 
English and Buck settled down for some serious tast- 
ing. I was allowed a little of each and had many slices 
of bread pressed on me. As though by agreement they 

Picturesque Mill Quarter Pond 


both finished their wine, stood up, and waited for what- 
ever wine Buck chose to be brought forth by the bhnd 
sister. In those days $2.00 a gallon was the going price. 
Later those gallons often came to be shared by my 
friends on picnics, dances, and on several occasions I 
recall the wine being used at communion. 

On that afternoon I realized why Buck's car ended 
up in a ditch. 

Pedro would walk several miles to a grocery store, 
buy sugar, 100-pound sacks of flour, and walk back 
none the tireder for it. His energy seemed limitless. His 
sister's eyes had been gouged by a bull when she was 
a child. My mother went with my father one night and 
the sister went outside to gather Mother some flowers 
out of her garden, it not mattering to her that it was 
dark outside. Years later I learned that Pedro had died 
and his sister had been committed to a rest home, dying 
a good supply around until hunting season. 

I visited the old farm last season to renew my hunt- 
ing ties. The land had just been sold for $250,000.00. 
The house had burned down except for the chimney, 
and the grapevines were unkept and overgrown. 

Pedro allowed me to bring a few friends with me 
to hunt. Until that time, I had relied on my father and 
his friends. Now, alone, I learned that quail were most 
likely found in fields in early morning or early evening. 
I enjoyed the crunch of frosted ground as I walked 
with my Iver Johnson at high port. I thrilled to the 
sound of flushing quail and was intoxicated by the smell 
of gunpowder, whether I hit target or not. My earliest 
remembrances were not of game bagged but of the 
hunt. I had begun to use all my senses. 

Mill Quarter plantation was another favorite hunt- 
ing ground. It belonged to an old German gentleman, 
Frederick Bohlen, who had earned his money import- 
ing and exporting tobacco before the first World War. 
The two-storied brick house was surrounded by tall 
oak trees which had enough squirrels living in them 
to tempt even the most casual hunter. The house was 
large with broad random-width board floors. When 
you walked into the hallway, the floors creaked and an 



Abandoned farm land attracts wildlife and developers. 

A wildlife haven, 
the old overgrown 
fencerow with its 
berries and grape- 
vines is nearly 

old grandfather clock in the hall would make a soft 
chiming sound. The rooms were sparsely decorated 
with tall windows covered with Venetian blinds, satin 
curtains hanging to the floor on either side. Palms and 
Oriental carpets seemed to be the essential items in 
every room except the kitchen, which had a well-used 

Outside the main house was a well with crank, bucket, 
and rope. No matter how hot the weather, the water was 
ice-cold and the lack of chemical additives was notice- 
able. In the front yard was a sun dial and the sweet 
smell of grass growing dark green under the oaks. Be- 
yond the house were large fields separated by hedge- 
rows. One could hunt the fields for birds, kick up an 
occasional rabbit in the hedge, or hunt the dense cover 
of trees on either side of the fields for scjuirrels. 

You could find arrowheads down near the creek un- 
covered by a good rain. The creek, during rainy weather, 
was four feet wide and all of one-half feet deep. There 
were reports that during World War II German sub- 
marines were coming up the creek and docking, a story 
that seems to have reflected a local need for excitement. 
In the spring of each year we would go and picnic at 
Mill Quarter pond. At Mill Quarter I fished, hunted, 
and learned that land need not be remote and away 
from civilization in order to protect and nourish game. 
Today Mill Quarter is a housing development. 

Any farm with sensible management can have its 
share of wildlife. Small hedgerows left between cul- 
tivated fields provide substantial cover for a limited 
amount of wildlife. Quail are not citizens of heavy 
uncut forests. They survive in farming communities, 
taking advantage of the fields and their crops. Wooded 
areas along the edges of the fields provide excellent 
cover for quail, rabbits, and squirrels, and good pro- 

(Continued on page 20) 

Rabbits help develop budding hunting skills. 

THE popularity of game animals is often a nebulous 
thing, subject to the whims of hunters and the 
abundance of the species. Here in the Old Domin- 
ion, for example, the gray squirrel is considered the 
number one game animal. The cottontail rabbit has to 
settle for second place. But nationally the cottontail holds 
a pretty firm grip on the number one position. Through- 
out the United States the two popular game animals 
vie vigorously for the hunter's favor, and in many 
states the bushytail comes out on top. 

In recent years the cottontail has been handicapped 
in Virginia because of its spotty and unpredictable dis- 
tribution. Rabbit populations have bounced about like 
a rubber ball, forcing a feast or famine diet on the nim- 
rod. This is reflected in the estimated annual harvests. 
The Old Dominion squirrel bag is almost twice the take 
of rabbits. One recent survey placed the squirrel harvest 
at over two and a half million while the bunny kill was 
slightly under a million and a half. This was true even 
though the same survey showed squirrel hunters were 
only slightly more numerous than rabbit hunters. 

The rabbit's popularity in Virginia has suffered from 
these erratic population trends. 

The Coumission of Game and Inland Fisheries in 
cooperation with the Wildlife Research Unit at VPI 
is studying the problem. Hopefully the study will point 
the way to better rabbit hunting in the Old Dominion. 

As most rabbit hunters know all too well, cottontails, 
seemingly abundant in late summer as they feed and 
play near the edges, vanish by the time the November 
hunting season rolls around. Someone has said that 
only one out of twenty young cottontails survive their 
first year. Even so the animals are extremely prolific. 
If even half of them made it for six months, there would 
be plenty of game for the fall and winter hunting. 



OLD NO, 1 



If the problem has a solution, our game managers will 
uncover it. 

In the meantime hunting is not going to hurt our 
often meager supply of game. As is the case with most 
game animals, regulated hunting is not a threat. 

Much of the cottontail's popularity can be attributed 
to the eager little beagle hounds used to chase him. 
Most rabbit hunters own a pack of the little hounds. 
The popular little dogs are friendly, even tempered and 
a joy to hunt with and care for. And a hunter can feed 
a dozen beagles less expensively than he can three or 
four large dogs. 

Few hunting thrills top a rabbit chase on a frosty 
November morning. The tiny hounds, the melodious 
notes of their eager music warming the nippy air, will 
hunt all day if there is game to keep them interested. 
In fact, assembling the dogs at the end of the day can 
be a real problem. Though friendly and well disposi- 
tioned, beagles are noted for their independence. They 
are just about impossible to call ofif of a trail. More than 
one frustrated hunter has had to go home without his 
dogs and return for them the next morning. A smelly 
jacket left at the site will hold the dogs until he returns 
for them. 

The nimrod fortunate enough to own a pack of good 
beagles leaves much of the hunting to the dogs. He 
must lead them into good rabbit country, however, so 
a knowledge of rabbit cover and habits is essential. 

Bro Rabbit and the Brier Patch is an old fable, but 
it is just as applicable today as when it was told to that 
first wide-eyed child. The cottontail is a farm species. 
The farmer's fields and crops provide him with food, 
but it loves the edges. Good cover must be close by — 
brier patches, brush piles, fence rows, thickets, and in 
the Old Dominion that well-known and often cussed 
honeysuckle. This is the kind of cover the rabbit hunter 
seeks, and if he can find it close to water so much the 
better. Creek bottoms often provide lucrative hunting 

Rabbit sign is not hard to recognize. The tiny round 
droppings of the cottontail give it away. And in the 
winter rabbit tracks in the snow are recognized by 
even the casual observer. 

Once he has his dogs down in good rabbit territory 


the hunter will improve his chances if he pitches in and 
helps with the hunting — kicking brush piles, tossing 
stones into brier patches and stomping through patches 
of honeysuckle. He may even jump a bunny before his 
dogs do. 

But once he gets the rabbit up and going, he lets the 
dogs take over. The chase is the best part of the hunt — 
filled with anticipation and hound music. If the rabbit 
doesn't hole up by diving into a convenient woodchuck 
hole, the chase is likely to be a long and merry one. 

Most cottontails will eventually return to the area 
from which they were routed. It's home to them. Hunt- 
ers can take advantage of this habit by posting them- 
selves along possible return routes. 

Beagles rarely press a rabbit. Few can match its 
speed. The pursued bunny will usually run in spurts, 
keeping a safe distance ahead of the hounds. The rabbit 
may clip along hundreds of yards ahead of the pack, 
so the hunter should keep alert. His chance may come 
much more quickly than anticipated. The rabbit may 
dash suddenly into view and stop to listen and watch, 
or it may mosey along, hopping at a comfortable pace. 

While they are probably much in the minority, some 
hunters go after rabbits without dogs — mostly because 
they do not own beagles. A good example is the young 
hunter. Rabbits and squirrels launch the majority of 
young men on their hunting careers. 

The hunter can work known rabbit cover and kick 
the bunnies out himself. He will have to shoot them on 
the jump, however, as it will probably be hours before 
the rabbit, not pressed by hounds, moseys back home. 
J'ust as the beagle owner helps his dogs the lone hunter 
can kick brush piles, stomp honeysuckle, and toss stones 
into brier patches. If he works at it, he will route out 
some game. 

He can also walk a zigzag course through good rabbit 
cover, pausing periodically. It is the nature of a rabbit 
to sit tightly unless almost stepped upon by the hunter, 
but like most game it does not trust a standing hunter. 
Possibly it fears it has been spotted. In any event the 
hunter should be prepared to shoot when he pauses in 
his hunting efforts. For that is the moment the rabbit 
is most likely to explode from its form. 


On cold but sunny days, rabbits like to sun themselves 
on the protected slopes. When they do, a hunter with 
trained eyes can spot them in their beds — or forms. 
Usually the hills with southern exposures are best for 
this kind of hunting. The hunter armed with a .22 cal- 
iber riflle or bow and arrow should comb these sun-filled 
areas thoroughly, letting his eyes s\yeep back and forth 
as he moves slowly. Once he spots a rabbit he should 
shoot quickly before the animal becomes alarmed and 
makes a dash for it. 

Tracking rabbits in a fresh snow is fun and some- 
times productive. Cottontails roam mostly under the 
cover of darkness, so the first morning" after a new snow 
is an ideal time to pick up rabbit tracks. A single rabbit 
can put down lots of tracks, and it may be difficult to 
unravel a trail. 

Eventually the bunny will head for a bed and its 
tracks will tell the story. If the trail disappears into a 
brush pile or thicket, the hunter has his quarry pinned 

Like its rival the bushytail, the cottontail can provide 
hours of excellent hunting for a wide variety of hunters. 
The beagle man with his shotgun, the bowhunter and 
the rifleman with his little 22 all look to the cottontail 
for top sport and fine eating. 

The problem at the moment is finding a way to keep 
a good supply around until hunting season. 

The bowhunter 
finds rabbits a 
real challenge. 
Spotting the 
bunnies in their 
forms takes 


A BeaufiM Dai*k, Rainy 



THERE is an old saying, "You can take the boy 
out of the country, but you can't take the country 
out of the boy." This was more true in my boy- 
hood days of forty-five or fifty years ago than now, 
since there is not that much difference between the 
country boys and city boys anymore. 

Back in the twenties, when I grew up. on a big farm 
in lower Culpeper County, there were quite a few wild 
turkeys around Batna, Eckington and Stevensburg, 
and in our own woods ; and it was the height of almost 
every boy's ambition to get one. 

My first turkey hunt was in 1927. I saw one killed 
on the wing right in front of me. I almost got a shot 
at another but was a little too slow. One Christmas day 
in the thirties, while I was a student at V.P.I., the fox- 
hounds flushed several turkeys, out of our woods, and 
our domestic flock was chasing one around our yard. 
But I couldn't get out before it went sailing away as 
I opened the door. On November 15, 1949. I went on 
a turkey hunt in the "flats" — a good turkey territory — 
but had to leave early expecting a call from U.Va. Hos- 
pital announcing my daughter was about to be born. 
Instead however, the call was to bring my wife home 
for another two weeks of waiting. 

After that the few times I went turkey hunting, 
where turkeys had often been seen, I never saw one — 
probably because my companions and I didn't really 
know how to hunt them. So it turned out I never got 
a shot at one. 

Then on November 16, 1973, at my fortieth reunion 
at V.P.I., as my cousin and roommate for three years. 
Dr. James Lucius Davis of Waynesboro, and I were 
reminiscing, he invited me to Augusta County for a 
turkey hunt — an invitation which I eagerly accepted. 

In early December James called to ask me to come 
over on December 13. The day dawned bleak and rainy, 
but I was determined to go. When I arrived at Waynes- 
boro, there was snow on the ground and the weather 
was foreboding. James' nurse showed me through his 
offices where he was still seeing patients. Then his wife, 
Kay, served us a delicious lunch of oyster stew, country 
ham sandwiches, and fruit salad. 

Just as we finished, Ralph L. Weaver, Commissioner 
of Game and Inland Fisheries, who was to accompany 
us, called to see if we thought the weather was too 
bad: We said, "not for us." Ralph turned out to be not 
only a fine gentleman but fantastic as a hunter and 


He joined us somewhere in Augusta County and told 
us of his strategy. He had already killed one turkey this 
season and was determined for me to get one. Ralph said 
he would go up a certain mountain hollow where he 
thought he would find turkeys in a laurel thicket. If he 
found them here, he would shoot into the air. He said 
we were to wait at a clearing on the other side of the 
mountain and the turkeys should be there about forty 
minutes after he left us. He came over in his jeep at 
the appointed time and was surprised we hadn't seen 
the turkeys. 

He then told me he would take the ridge and I the 
creek and James should stay at the upper end of a 
feed patch. Then he would call them. After a few calls 
he motioned to me from the ridge that he had sighted 
two turkeys. When we met a few minutes later, he was 
again surprised I hadn't seen them. He gave me an- 
other briefing, and, sure enough, after hiking another 
two hundred yards I saw a turkey suddenly appear out 
of the mist and drizzle. It was projected in the third 
dimension, standing behind some grass and briers under 
a tree about forty or fifty yards from me. Quickly I took 
aim at its head and fired my Winchester twenty-gauge 
model twelve. My heart skipped a beat and the turkey 
fell. I had just gotten my first turkey, and also my first 
shot at one. It was checked in with Ralph as a twelve- 
pound young gobbler. When I dressed my prize back at 
home in Warrenton, I found four shot in the head and 
three in the front part of the back. 

Without the fine guidance and sportsmanship of my 
cousin James and that of Ralph Weaver, I would still 
be talking about various turkeys I almost got a shot 
at over forty years ago. 

This experience brings to mind many pleasant hunts 
for all kinds of small game and some for turkey with 
good companions in November, December and January, 
a quiet nice season to be close to nature. 

Thus I question the poet who wrote : "The melan- 
choly days are come, the saddest of the year. . ." 

I just don't agree with him. It is a beautiful, restful 
time for the outdoorsman and hunter. 

Rambling in the Suburbs 

(Continued from page 17) 

tection from their natural predators. 

All these experiences took place a short distance 
from Richmond. No great amount of preparation was 
necessary, no long trips. Had the distances been greater 
I would not have had the opportunity to gather my 
own information, and gain it from nature a little at a 
time. Each season revealed to me its own influence 
on the life cycle of wildlife. 

Perhaps one problem of housing developments is that 
they fail to take into account the ongoing dynamics of 
nature. They provide less area for mutual tolerance be- 
tween man and nature. 



Five Game Commission Personnel were among those honored at the twenty-fourth annual 
Governor's Conservation Achievement Program held at the Chamberlain Hotel October 19, 1974. The 
award program is jointly sponsored by the Virginia Wildlife Federation and Sears Roebuck and 

Those receiving recognition from the Game Commission included, left to right, MR. E. E. 
EDGAR, Norfolk, Va., Certificate of Merit in the field of dbrtimunication. Mr. Edgar is 2nd 
Congressional District Commissioner on the Game Commission. EDWARD G. MITCHELL, JR., The 
Virginia Game Warden responsible for the county of York and the cities of Newport News and Hampton, 
Va. Mr. Mitchell, who was selected as warden of the year for 1974 from the Game Commission received 
special recognition from the Virginia Wildlife Federation during the program. JAMES W. ENGLE, JR., 
Land Coordinator for the Commission, was recipient of the Forest Conservationist of the Year Award. 
Engle, who has since 1950 been active in the forest conservation. Game Biology and Forest Management 
and Forest-wildlife coordination programs is from Swoope, Va. LT. GOVERNOR JOHN N. DALTON, 
who represented Governor Mills E. Godwin, Jr. during the ceremonies. RALPH L. WEAVER, from 
Stuarts Draft, Va., Certificate of Merit, Wildlife Phase. Mr. Weaver is Commissioner from the Sixth 
Congressional District. DR. ALLAN A. HOFFMAN, from Danville, Va., Certificate of Merit, Wildlife 
Phase. Dr. Hoffman is Commission fromer the Fifth Congressional District. 

Good Deal in Clubs (Continued from page 9) 

ership and close cooperation among its members. De- 
ciding where a drive will be made, organizing the place- 
ment of the men on individual stands, selecting the dogs 
to be released, designating a driver, and even such 
routine matters as stocking food for meals, cooking, and 
washing dishes requires leadership and planning. The 
care and upkeep of a large kennel of dogs is particularly 
costly and time consuming. To meet its various ex- 
penses, clubs often have annual membership fees of $100 
or more, though clubs with few facilities can charge less, 
while those with more elaborate facilities must charge 
substantially more. 

Critics of these clubs maintain that they are "closed 
societies" and "exclusive." The charges are no doubt 
true to some extent, but at the same time, for a club 
to open its doors to everybody would be to invite dis- 
aster, as history reveals. Several clubs, to my knowl- 
edge, have dissolved because of internal disharmony. 
With Mount Hope, as with most strong clubs, member- 
ship is granted only to persons well acquainted with at 
least several regular members. Guests are occasionally 
entertained with a day's hunt, but absolute strangers 
are unwelcome. Strangers to this type of hunting have 
been known to get excited and shoot at dogs or in the 
direction of other hunters. The Mount Hope club has 
never had a hunting accident in its thirty-three years, 
and no doubt most of its members are determined to 
keep it that way. 

Despite the criticisms that are directed at clubs, I 
believe they are invaluable forces in the conservation 
of natural resources in their region. Here are some of 
the relationships that exist between the Mount Hope 
club, various landowners, game management person- 
nel, and wildlife itself. 

The club acquires exclusive hunting rights to large 
tracts of corporate-owned timberland in exchange for 
payment of annual property taxes on the land. But in 
addition to payment of taxes, the club twice annually 
carries out "road maintenance" operations in which it 
clears fallen timber and fills potholes along all the log- 
ging roads and fire trails that crisscross its holdings. 
Both the club and landowner benefit by this. But co- 
operation does not end here. The landowner observes 
Game Commission guidelines for harvesting and re- 
forestation programs in order to create better game 
habitats. One such program includes a number of "food 
patches" planted in small cleared areas scattered through- 
out the forest. The Game Commission donates a scien- 
tifically balanced selection of seeds for planting ; the 
lumber company donates the land ; and the Mount Hope 
club provides the labor involved in making and main- 
taining these plantings. Without this close cooperation 
among the three parties, it is doubtful that the food 
patch program produced by these parties could be car- 
ried out. As a result of these plantings, all kinds of 
game — grouse, quail, rabbit, turkey, squirrel, deer, and 


others — benefit from the cover and food provided, and 
club members are enabled to hunt other kinds of game 
on the club holdings though this is never an organized 
activity. Members do so entirely on their own. 

Private landowners also develop mutual cooperation 
with clubs. The Mount Hope club, for example, has 
exclusive hunting rights to several farms, granted in 
some cases in exchange for club membership, but in 
many cases just out of friendship by a non-hunting 
farmer. Many of the cooperating farmers practice meth- 
ods that create, rather than destroy, game habitat. They 
plant hedgerow fences, for example, instead of practic- 
ing clean-farming ; and leave crop-margins as food 
patches near wooded areas for the benefit of wildlife. 
Both practices provide additional cover and food to a 
wide variety of wildlife. 

Both corporate and private landowners recognize one 
tremendous asset in granting hunting privileges ex- 
clusively to one club : they know that the club acts as 
a responsible party and will take care of property, crops, 
and land in a way "occasional" hunters might not. Some 
private landowners, in fact, seek to donate the hunting 
rights to their land to clubs for this reason alone. 

Another benefit rendered by hunting clubs is the 
least understood by non-hunters : by harvesting the 
deer, the clubs help maintain an ecological balance. Wild 
predators of deer — wolves, bear, wildcat, etc. — have 
been eliminated by man, and without these "natural" 
enemies, deer populations, if unchecked, would erupt 
and overrun farmland, destroying crops and gardens, 
and competing with cattle for pasture. Keeping the 
deer population under control also prevents diseases 
from becoming epidemic in overly dense deer popula- 

This harvest represents the wise utilization of a nat- 
ural resource — and also a valuable contribution to the 
family larder. In 1972-73, during a two-male-deer bag 
limit season, the Mount Hope club averaged about 1.7 
deer per regular member. With the custom of equal divi- 
sion among club members, this represented approxi- 
mately 150 pounds of venison per man. Much of it was 
consumed in the clubhouse, but a lot went to family 
kitchens, too. Yet despite these harvests, the deer popu- 
lations in most club areas continue to remain stable, or 
actually to increase, from year to year. 

In my opinion, nothing quite beats club-type hunting. 
You spend the day among friends, enjoying their fellow- 
ship and the freedom of the outdoors, and the excite- 
ment of the chase. The hours spent on a stand are never 
dull, for even if a deer does not come your way for 
weeks on end, the music of the chase is yours to listen 
to on almost every drive; and there is the satisfaction of 
knowing that the deer is probably headed in the direc- 
tion of one of your good friends. And then there is the 
continuing pleasure of feeling that you are a part of a 
group that works with, and not against. Nature itself. 
Everything considered, club hunting can't be beat. 


Edited bv MEL WHITE 

Art Provides Recreational Experience for 
Retarded Children 

For the past three years Tommy Nobis of the Atlanta 
Falcons has given his off-season time to mentally retarded 
children throughout the State of Georgia. These children 
are special to Tommy and he enjoys serving and giving 
of his time in their behalf. Through his Super Sports 

Telethon, telecast in the Metro Atlanta area over WTCG, 
Channel 17, he has raised over $100,000 to help provide 
recreational experiences for these children. You can also 
help Tommy in his efforts to help his young friends by 
buying an art print of the Falcon for $60.00. One-half of 
the proceeds of the sale of these prints, in the form of 
a donation from the National Wildlife Art Exchange, Inc., 
Vero Beach, Florida, to Tommy, will be utilized for the 
express purpose of seeing that these deserving children 
may participate in recreational experiences provided by 
the Georgia Special Olympics. Checks should be made 
payable to SCORE, inc., P. O. Box 89144, Atlanta, 
Georgia 30312. The price of each print is $60.00 each or 
multiples thereof. This amount includes packaging and de- 
livery charges. 



Janette Clary used a 45-pound bow to down this 120 pound 

deer in Brunswick County. The 20 yard shot was made from a 

tree stand. 

A one pound, one ounce citation rock bass from Diascund Creek. 
The bass was caught by Miss Catherine Childress last July. 


Endangered Species Report 


Edgezvater, Maryland 


The Eastern Panther 

It will surprise many to find the Eastern panther on 
Virginia's list of endangered species. It was gen- 
erally thought to be extinct, until a few years ago, 
except in the Florida portion of its range. The last 
authenticated occurrence of the animal within the State 
was nearly one hundred years ago. 

But recent sightings by reliable observers have 
stirred new interest in the "panther mystery". Malcolm 
Edwards, a Jefiferson National Forest biologist, Harold 
Trumbo, a biologist with the Game Commission, and 
Ronald Warfield, a ranger on the Blue Ridge Parkway 
have logged reports of panthers. In August, 1971, they 
listed twenty records for the previous twelve months. 
Most of them came from the Potts Mountain area in 
Craig County and from the territory around the Peaks 
of Otter. In 1950, a panther was closely observed on 
Shenandoah Mountain near Harrisonburg, and there 
have been more recent sightings in Highland County 
along the West Virginia line. 

Buttressing this evidence are indications that the 
l)anther is making a comeback elsewhere in the East. 
Intense investigations in Eastern Canada revealed a 


population of 25 to 50 animals, where its presence was 
doubted before. And there is now panther talk around 
campfires in the Adirondacks and in northern Maine. 

Sceptics question that an animal so large could escape 
detection, but naturalists hold that it is quite possible. 
It is largely nocturnal and lives in the roughest of ter- 
rain. It is extraordinarily keen of sight, scent and 
hearing and disappears at the mere hint of man's pres- 
ence. Even in the West, where panthers are still present 
in numbers, it takes the use of trained dogs to find one, 
and many ranchers live out there lives in panther 
country without ever seeing one. 

If panthers do exist in Virginia, they are obviously 
on the brink of extinction, and every effort should be 
made to prevent killing them, accidentally or purposeful. 
The State Game Commission has given them complete 
protection, an important and necessary step, but needed 
also is an educational program to bolster public aware- 
ness of their possible presence. An ecological course in 
the public schools could reinforce the role of the panther 
in nature's scheme, and help insure that these splendid 
creatures are not slain through ignorance. 


Edited by ANN PILCHER 

Spring and summer 1974 brought 
exhilarating successes for some young 
Virginia anglers. A few are featured 
below, and this columnist offers best 
wishes to "75 anglers for lots of luck 
with the lunkers. 

It was mid-July when Jeffrey Allen, 
age 7, of \'irginia Beach pulled an 
8 lb. 4 oz. largemouth from Northwest 
River and earned a freshwater fish 
citation. Length of catch : 24-1/2 inches ; 
girth, 17-3/4 inches. 


Eight-year-old Rich- 
monder Kip Ander- 
son exhibits his 1 
lb. 4 oz. bluegill 
taken locally in June 
from Henning Pond 
(Rt. 10 and Gravel 
Brook Road). He 
used a pole to land 
the citation-winning 

Last June 27 a plas- 
tic minnow cast in 
Opal, Va., pond lured 
this 7 lb. 23 inch 
largemouth bass to 
the line of 10-year- 
old Robert Wilcox of 

Howard Hopkins of 
Herndon takes a 
close look at his 18" 
almost 4 lb. large- 
mouth bass taken 
from a local pond 
May 30. 

First Tree Farm 

Last fall John A. "Andy" Sadler, 18, 
of Cascade, Va., near Danville, became 
the first recipient of the Virginia Tree 

Farm Committee's $500 scholarship 

awarded a freshman forestry student Andy was third in his senior class of 
entering the Division of Forestry and 240 at Tunstall High School, Dry 

Wildlife Sciences at VPI & SU. The 
scholarship is the first, not only in Vir- 
ginia but in the entire United States, 
to be made by a state Tree Farm Com- 


Fork, where he had been active in 
scouting, band, and school plays. At 
Virginia Tech his classes center on 
forest management and outdoor rec- 

Jeffrey Johnson's 
chain pickerel, taken 
from Lake Monticello 
May 4, weighed 4 lb. 
1 oz. and measured 
28 inches. The Char- 
lottesville youth used 
spinning rod to land 
the lunker. 

9-year-old Richmonder Carlton Hunter Hil- 
bert caught a 4 lb. 2 oz. chain pickerel on 
Mother's Day in a private Goochland 
County pond. The "pike" was 25 inches 



Edited by JIM KERRICK 


Accidents happen anywhere, even 
when boating, so always keep a first 
aid kit handy aboard your boat. Though 
tliere are many kits on the market, you 
can make up your own. 

Aspirin. For headaches from too 
much sun or mikl aches and pains, 
aspirin is best. 

Dramamine. Even an 'ole salt' can 
develop sea-sickness from rough seas 
or too much sun. 

Adhesive tape, bandages and sterile 
pads. A variety of sizes of bandages 
should be kept aboard as well as sterile 
pads for cleaning wounds. 

Antiseptics. The individually wrapped 
antiseptic swabs are best so there won't 
be any loss of strength. 

Pain killers. Use those prescribed by 
your doctor. 

Suntan oil. \\'hether you're tanning 
or screening out the sun, you need 
protection. Use any of the many prod- 
ucts on the market and use it liberally. 

Burn ointment. You'll need this for 
sunburn as well as galley burns. If 
available, ice is very good for burns. 

Witch hazel. Eyes get tired and 
bloodshot from too much wind, sun 
and glare. Cotton soaked in witch hazel 
and put on the eyes does wonders. 

Wire cutters. Particularly needed for 
the fisherman who may get a fish hook 
stuck in his finger. Learn to remove 
a fish hook safely. The easiest way is 
by pushing the hook through the skin, 
snipping off the barb end, then pulling 
the hook back the way it went in. (If 
you do have a fish hook problem, you 
should get a tetanus shot — if you 
haven't had one recently.) 

Tweezers : Handy to use in remo\- 
ing slivers. 

Buy small containers of ointments 
and antiseptics if individually wrapped 
dosages aren't available. This will 
lessen the chance for evaporation and 
deterioration. And don't forget to take 


along any prescription medication you 
might need. If you're going on a long 
voyage, take your prescription with 

Your first aid kit should be in a 
waterproof container that resists rust 
and corrosion and should be located 
where anyone can find it. Tell boating 
guests the location of the kit. 

Remember to check the first aid kit 
before every outing to replace items 
already used. A first aid handbook is a 
handy thing to keep around. You can 
contact the American Red Cross for 
further information about kits and for 
free first aid classes and booklets. 


The fuel shortage doesn't mean the 
boater has to store his boat "till better 
times" — it just means he needs to do 
everything he can to get more mileage 
from every gallon of gas he uses. 

To get the most out of your boating 
fuel : 

Match the engine to your boat with 
the recommended load capacity and 
distribute weight evenly. Overloading 
your boat will only make your engine 
work harder and use more gasoline. 
Make sure the engine is angled prop- 

Be careful when fueling. Spilled 
gasoline is not only dangerous, it's 

Follow the manufacturer's recom- 
mendation when mixing oil with gas- 
oline. Don't mix a full can of oil into 
a gas tank if the tank still has oil mixed 
in it already. You'd be using too much 
oil. Some older engines that require a 
24-to-l gas to oil mix can now accept 
a 2 to 1 mixture if the oil is TC-W 
rated at 50-to-l. Check with your 
owner's manual or marine dealer to be 

Keep }Our engine tuned up, partic- 
ularly if your engine is an older model. 

You can conserve gas by running 
your engine at 2/3 or 3/4 throttle, 
providing your boat is planing. Check 
your owner's manual to determine the 
sj^eed at which your engine operates 
most efficiently and maintain that 

Warm-up time is not necessary. 
Don't keep the engine running any 
more than necessary, such as at dock- 
side or while fishing. In fact, fisherman 
should learn the art of drift fishing 
rather than trolling for long periods of 

Avoid extended trips. Not only will 
you save car gasoline by not trailering 
your boat long distances, you'll save 
boating fuel by boating closer to home. 

Keep your hull clean and make sure 
there are no nicks and bends in your 

Limit your water-skiing time ; go 
fishing with friends. 

Boatmen are minor users of fuel in 
relation to other consumers. Recrea- 
tional boating consumes approximately 
1/2 of 1 per cent of the gasoline used 
by Americans each year. This is equiv- 
alent to 1/2 tank of gas per car per 
year. Boatmen can reduce their gas 
consumption even more if they will 
follow a few single conservation steps. 
It's the practical as well as patriotic 
thing to do. 

Does Your Engine "Match" Its Boat 

If you throttle back a "matched" boat, 
you will be able to save as much as 50 
percent of the gas you are used to buying. 
There should be enough reserve power so 
that you can throttle back. 





Know Your Commissioners — F. N. Sattcrlcc 

Dr. Allan A. Hoffman Jan., 

Ralph G. Gunter Apr., 

G. Richard Thompson June, 

Bill West Sept., 


Endangered Species Report — /. ({'. Taylor 

The Carpenter Frog Mar., 

Tree Frogs, Harbingers of Spring — B. A. Branson Mar., 


Endangered Species Report — /. W. Taylor 

The Southern Bald Eagle Feb., 

Peregrine Falcon Apr., 

Red Cockaded Woodpecker Oct., 

A Guide to Feeding Birds — /. /. Shamon Jan., 

Ducks Around the Bend — Bill Martin Jan., 

Life History of Logic (Quail) — Bill Weckes Feb., 

Our Disappearing Cans and Redheads — Art Hawkins Feb., 

Ducks L'nlimited in Action Mar., 

Kiptopeke Banding Station — F. T. Hanenkrat Apr., 

The Flicker— ilf. H. Berry May, 

Meet the Green Heron — Steve Price May, 

The Night Hunters (Owl) — F. T. Hanenkrat June, 

August Bounty — R. L. Conner Aug., 

Knock-Knock, Who's There? — R. N. Conner Nov., 

Gallo, the Wild Turkey — C. Ahrcns Nov., 

Let's Feed the Birds — Marjorie L. Massclin Dec, 


Conservation Short Course Advertisement Mar., 

Tranquility Near Traumaville — F. N. Sattcrlee June, 

Fight Pollution— Dial HATS— Jenifer Smith July, 

Wildlife Training Comes to the Community Colleges — 

R. J. Lorence Aug., 


Of Grizzly Bears and Mink — H. A. Jacobson Feb., 

Transportation and the Environment — .?. P. Davcy Mar., 

To Be a Conservationist You Have To Get Your Hands Dirty — 

Kevin Jones July, 

Governor's Conservation Award Program July, 

Rights and Responsibilities to Wildlife Sept., 

Endangered Vertebrates of Virginia Sept., 

Who Really Cares? — Arminta Braasch Oct., 

Conservation Award Winners Dec. , 

A Study of Rabies in Southwestern Virginia — Ellen T. Prior, 

R. H. Giles, Jr July, 


Meshing the Cogs of Environmental Management — H. L. Gillam . .Jan., 

Outdoorsmen and the Energy Crisis — H. L. Gillam Apr., 

What Price Wilderness?—//. L. Gillam May, 

Recreational Values — H. L. Gillam June, 

The Laws of Ecology — H. L. Gillam July, 

Land Use Control — H. L. Gillam Aug., 

The Steel Trap—//. L. Gillam Oct., 

How Tarnished Is Our Image? — H. L. Gillam Nov., 

Today Waterfowl, Tomorrow ? ? Dec. , 


The Crappie — D. Raver Apr., 

The American Eel — B. L. Stcinkoenig Aug., 

A bream By Any Other Name — F. N. Stewart Nov., 


A Million Trout — M. White Apr., 

Native vs. Exotic Fishes — Allan A. Hoffman Aug., 

New Hope For Clay tor Lake — John L. Boase Oct., 


Virginia's Winter Heavyweights — Pete Elkins Jan., 

Opening Day on the Big Stony — Steve Rhodes Mar., 

Save That Battered Rod— P. R. Kucitcr Mar., 

Panfish . . . For the Energy Crisis — Pete Elkins Apr., 

Stripes: Big For Their Size — Bill Cochran ALiy, 

Tying the Black Nose Dace — P. R. Kiirjler May, 

Native Trout: Small Fish . . . Big Memories — R. Pauley June, 

Gearing Up for Float Fishing — R. E. B. Stewart III June, 

Tying the Muskrat Nymph — P. R. Kutiler July, 

Catch a Record Fish July, 

Wilderness In Your Back Yard (Float Trip)— C. D. Hamlett ..Aug., 

Catch Your Own Minnows — Gerald Almy Oct., 

The Virginia Invitational — Bill Weekes Nov., 

Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel Stripers— Bob Gooch Dec, 

Quest For A Citation — Wayne Williams Dec, 


Game, the Other Alternative — Sandra S. Meadows Sept., 

Be Your Own Butcher — R. E. Mirarchi, W. P. Riiss, J. B. Lint Nov., 


Madness After Dark — R. Pauley Jan., 

Nine Ways the Sportsman Proves His High I.Q. — G. Dodson Jan., 

Offer to Non-hunting Public Ad Mar., 

Western Deer Camp — Bill Cochran Sept., 

Durn Doves — D. R. Miller Sept., 

The Squirrel Hunter's Many Dawns — Bob Gooch Sept., 

Rail Hunt — Bill Martin Sept., 

The 1973 Primitive Weapons Season, /. L. Coggin, Denny Martin, 

Gary Spiers . Oct 

Big Game Harvests (1971/72-1973/74) Oct., 

The 1974 Season Outlook Oct., 

How Does That Trophy Rate? (Big Game Trophy Contest Entry 

Information Oct. 

Deer Hunting Tips — E. Pearce .Nov!! 

Afternoon In the Marsh — C. J. Badger Nov., 

Crows Survive Their First Hunting Season— D. R. Chamberlain Nov., 

Pheasant Hunting in Virginia— M'. //. Taylor Nov.. 

Eightball— Bob York Dec, 

A Good Deal In Clubs— Fran* T. Hanenkrat Dec' 

Rambling In the Suburbs — R. Kevorkian Dec 

Hunting Old No. 1— Bob Gooch Dec ' 

A Beautiful Dark, Rainy December Day— T. D. Jones Dec.[ 

p. 22 

p. 10 

p. 10 

p. 25 

p. 21 
p. 8 














p. 7 

p. 4 

p. 16 

p. 21 


p. 14 

p. 16 

p. 6 

p. 11 

p. 23 

p. 14 


An Angler's Guide to Aquatic Insects of the Shenandoah and Other 

Virginia Rivers — E. W. Snrbcr May, 

Yes, There Are Gypsies In Our Woods — Gene Bushnell May, 

Fireflies, Sparkling Summer Lamps — Catharine Marsden Aug., 

Know Your Wardens — F. N. Sattcrlcc 

Woodrow W. Newman Feb., 

Henry H. Pittman, Jr., J. Hunter Perry Mar., 

James Paxton Monaghan, Peter Patrick Monaghan May, 

Gordon T. Preston July, 

Phillip S. Parrish Aug., 

Francis S. Boggs Oct., 

1974 Hunting Season Slate Nov., 


Virginia's Barrier Islands — C. J. Badger Mar., 

Slowest Turnpike In the East — Tom Earles . . .•. Mar., 

The Dismal Swamp Apr., 

Canoeing the Shenandoah — Garvey Winegar June, 

Little Lakes That Rate Big— Bi7/ Cochran July, 

Lake Anna: Virginia's Newest Hotspot — Gerald Almy July, 

Virginia's Loneliest River — Pete Elkins Sept., 

Autumn Interlude — C. L. Lundgren Sept., 

The Alpine Appalachian — Tony Decker Oct., 

Endangered Species Report — /. IV. Taylor 

The Dismal Swamp Lemming Mouse May, 

Rafinesque's Big Eared Bat Aug., 

The Northern Flying Squirrel Nov., 

The Eastern Panther Dec, 

Grand Ol' Groundhog — R. L. Smith Jan., 

Nature's Engineers — Sharon Saari Feb., 

Man of the Mountain — W. M. McNamara July, 


Set #9 Cover Prints Ad Jan., 

Poisonous Snakes and Their Lookalikes — D. Raver Feb., 

Virginia Woodpeckers — /. W. Taylor Apr., 

The Swallows—/. W. Taylor May, 

We Care About Endangered Wildlife Mar., 

A Basic Guide for the Birdwatcher June, 

The Purple Martin— H^. C. Walker July, 

Personal Flotation Devices — C. Kntith Aug., 

National Hunting and Fishing Day — C. Knuth Sept., 

Enter the Marlin Essay Contest Oct., 

Merry Christmas — C. Knuth Dec, 


Winter Birds at Feeding Tray — /. W. Taylor Jan., 

The Best of Kesteloo (Photographer Tribute) Jan., 

Waterfowl Paintings Ad — Jerry Ellis Mar., 

The Paintings of George Gilbert June, 

Virginia's Endangered Wildlife — /. W. Taylor Sept., 


In Nature's Garden — Elisabeth Murray 

The Common Cattail Jan., 

Bloodroot Mar., 

Trout-Lily Apr., 

Solomon's Seal May, 

(Columbine June, 

Sourwood July, 

Joe-pye-weed Aug., 

Bee Balm and other Mints Sept., 

Fall and Falling Leaves Oct., 

Euonymous Nov., 

Unusual Decorations — Eliaabeth Murray Dec, 

Spring Tonic-Roanoke Valley's Annual Pilgrimage — Janet & 

Thomas Krakauer Apr., 

You Started Me Thinking— F. 5". Harwood May, 


Carver Recycles Outdated Skills— Triirfy Willis Feb., 

Erosion of a Right — //. L. Gillam Feb., 

The Challenge of White Water— D. Martin Apr., 

Discover Backpacking and Walk Away from the Energy Crisis — 

/. 5. Conn May, 

Walking— Grr(;ory Adkins Mar., 

Trv a Pack-In Vacation — /. Augustine July, 

Blue Crabbing Through the Sands of Brine— BiV/ Weekes Aug., 

Peg It or Park It— Bill Cochran Aug., 

Endangered Species Report — /. W. Taylor 

The Bog Turtle July, 

The Snakes of Virginia, Part I—/. C. Mitchell Feb., 

The Snakes of Virginia, Part 11—/. C. Mitchell Apr., 

Natural History Notes: The Box Turtle — E. J. Drotos May, 

The Bog Turtle: Profile of an Endangered Species — K. T. Nemuras June, 


Snow, Magnificent Misery — Bill Weekes Jan., 

When a Mammal Leaves Its Fingerprints — /. K. Spiers Feb., 

Which Way Home ?— F. Titloiv. R. Lackey Feb., 

In Search of Bear Facts — /. W. Raybourne June, 

The Snowshoe Hare in Virginia, /. B. August Sept., 


Lost On Virginia's Eastern Shore — /. E. Hester Aug., 

Get Yourself In Shape — W. L. Herman Oct., 


Handling Quality Fur—/. R. Boldridge Feb., 

Know Your Biologists — F. N. Sattcrlee 

W. H. Taylor Nov., 

Can We Have Timber and Wildlife Too —P. A. Shrauder Oct., 

Wildlife Management at Philpott — Hal W. Myers Feb., 

A Simple Solution to Deer Damage— /CiV Shaffer May, 

Control of Game Damage — M. Carpenter, J. Coggin Aug., 

Scram, or Stay Put?— (I^. A. Guthrie Oct., 

An Earring for Elmer—/?. H. Giles, Jr Oct., 

Management — Key to Wildlife Variety and Abundance — 
F. G. Evcnden Nov.,